Cross My Heart and Hope to Die
by Reneia
Summary: Factor in the fact that the man was quite literally immortal and would spring back from death as easily as a gymnast from a hard fall- it was perfect. The personification of Northern Italy could be his personal spy.


The idea first hit Ludwig late at night, when he climbed into his familiar uncomfortable cot and stared at the slanted roof of his personal tent, trying to clear his head and fall asleep.

The day had been hard and long- grueling training in the ruins of an abandoned town that left him breathing heavily against the wall of a crumbled building, and Italy flat on the cobblestones of the road, gasping for air. Japan had been unavailable for the past month or so, citing "matters of the utmost importance" in his letters.

Sometimes, Ludwig wished that Italy's training hadn't fallen to him. He'd rather be on the front lines, fighting for his country. Plus, the other man was flighty and hard to work with on his best days. But his boss insisted, saying that it would strengthen the ties between their nations and help win them the war.

"Hey, watch this," Italy had said, after he stood up and brushed himself off. At some point, he'd shed his dull blue jacket and slung it around his neck. _Unprofessional,_ Ludwig had noted. Just like the carefree, somewhat mischievous grin plastered on his face.

"Watch what," Ludwig said warily. Italy rolled his eyes and dragged him along by his forearm, eventually stopping and pointing at a group of German soldiers who were dining by a small campfire.

"Look," the young man urged. Ludwig squinted. There wasn't anything unusual about the group. They were laughing and joking with each other, taking a well-deserved break. They behaved just like they normally did.

"I don't- Italy, if you're complaining about how early my soldiers start drinking again, I'll tell you now, I can't do anything about it, I've tried-"

"No," the shorter man said, effectively halting his next words. He turned, staring directly into Ludwig's eyes. "Come on, Captain, don't you see it?"

"See _what?_ " Ludwig demanded.

"Opportunity," Italy said, eyes glinting playfully. "I need to borrow this," he said, snatching Ludwig's hat off his head and fixing it to his own. He looked ridiculous, too-big hat shading his eyes just a _little_ too much for anyone to take him seriously, drab green clashing with the blue jacket around his neck. With a dramatic flourish, he slipped back into his jacket. "This good, Lud?" He giggled. "Heh, that rhymed. Oh, wait!" He pushed the brim of the hat away from his eyes, and plunged a hand into his pants pocket, looking unnervingly determined.

"Got it!" he exclaimed, entire face lighting up with joy. He held his hand out, revealing the iron cross Ludwig gave him two or so years ago.

"You keep it in your pocket?" Ludwig admonished, deciding to dismiss the strange manner in which his ally was acting. It was normal, for him. "What if you lost it?"

Italy, who had been fastening the cross to his neck, looked up with what seemed like disappointment. "Lost it?" he said. "It's a gift! I mean, okay, maybe I lose things a lot, but this is special to me! I wouldn't lose it!" With one final adjustment, the collar was smooth, and the cross sat fittingly below a brilliant grin.

Ludwig shook his head. "Whatever you say, Italy. Now, what did you want me to watch?"

"Don't be so formal, Lud! You need more fun in your life. And," he held up a hand. "This." With that, he squared his shoulders, letting the grin fall from his face, and strode towards the soldiers. At first, they seemed mildly amused. After all, the man approaching them was relatively short and slim, not to mention mismatched. Ludwig sighed, and started walking towards the mini-camp as well, but stopped in his tracks almost immediately.

His ally was speaking perfect German - there was no hint of the Italian accent that colored his English - and it seemed like he was telling the soldiers that they had been discovered, that he knew what they did…?

And somehow, despite the Italian's ridiculous attire, the words he was saying seemed to get to the men. Most were fidgeting uncomfortably, fingering their collars or sleeves, or just looking away.

It was surreal, almost. The diminutive Italy, shouting in fluent, unaccented German at German soldiers, and successfully intimidating them? That couldn't be real. Ludwig pinched his arm. It hurt.

Then, Italy burst into peals of laughter, doubling over and almost falling to the floor. The hat, much too large for his head, tumbled to the ground. The soldiers shared confused, nervous glances.

"Your _faces,_ " Italy said in his usual accented English, straightening and wiping his eye with a finger. "Oh, that was funny. Don't worry, I'm not really your commanding officer, but that would be real funny, huh? I don't have big muscles or anything. Oh, sorry," he said, taking in their collective confusion. "Don't speak English?" he said, this time in accented German. Most of them shook their heads, but they finally seemed to be understanding that it was all a prank, and some soldiers appeared to be growing angry. One, a tall, muscular blonde with narrowed eyes, stood up and stepped forward.

 _Dammit,_ Ludwig thought, already running forward to intervene. _I swear, he's going to get himself killed. It's a wonder he's survived this long._

"Hey, Ludwig!" Italy greeted. Ludwig stopped, again, and simply stared.

"How…" he said under his breath, looking around. The soldiers were happy again. Italy had a frothy mug of beer in one hand, and the other arm was slung around the smiling soldier who had, not thirty seconds ago, seemed ready to attack him.

"I made friends!" he said, raising his mug and taking a huge gulp. Immediately, he spat the beer on the ground, coughing and clutching his throat all-too-dramatically. "I still don't know how you drink this, though," he said, somewhat disdainfully. "Too… bubbly."

Ludwig shook off whatever remaining vestiges of shock and confusion that locked him in place, and seized Italy's arm. "No… fraternizing," he grumbled. The other man groaned.

"Come on, sir! Let loose a little!" he complained. Ludwig firmly shook his head, and started walking. Italy let himself be dragged along, eventually falling into step beside him. "Next Saturday, remember!" he called to the group of soldiers. "Oh, and this time, bring your best wine!"

The soldiers laughed. Ludwig clenched his jaw. "You need to focus, Italy," he said, this time in English, squaring his shoulders and clasping his hands loosely behind his back. The man frowned, dragging his feet through the dusty earth. "Pick up your feet, or you'll have to polish those," Ludwig warned.

"Alright," Italy said, looking unusually thoughtful. "I'm done training now. See you at dinner, Captain!" He bounced ahead, stopping directly in front of Ludwig and letting a grin break out on his face.

"What are you-" Ludwig demanded, sputtering out when he felt the weight fall on his head. His hands flew up, and there he felt the rough fabric of his military cap, dusty and littered with leaves as it was.

"Later, Germany!" the young-looking man in blue shouted, already twenty meters away.

And that was that. Ludwig didn't think about the scene too much for the rest of the day, forcing himself to focus on more important matters, but as soon as night fell and his mind began to wander, he idly put the information he gathered that day together, and sat straight up when the idea hit him.

It was brilliant. Efficient, encouraging effective use of the resources at his disposal, not to mention, it left him to attend to more important matters. And as Ludwig thought through the idea more and more, it just made more and more sense.

Italy was a fantastic actor, based on the childish prank he pulled after training. Quick-witted and overwhelmingly charismatic, too, going by how quickly he disarmed the volatile situation he squeezed himself into. Despite his diminutive Italian visage, he convinced a small group of fully-trained German soldiers that he was not only German himself, but their superior.

Factor in the fact that the man was quite literally immortal and would spring back from death as easily as a gymnast from a hard fall- it was perfect.

The personification of Northern Italy could be his personal spy.

He'd have to shield the idea from his boss, of course. The man would never allow it, but he'd lived longer, he knew better. This was the most efficient way to gather information. It could turn the tide of the war itself, he just _knew_ it. And when his boss realized how well he did, he would be commended instead of punished.

Hopefully.

Ludwig exhaled slowly through his nose and turned onto his back, clasping his hands on his stomach, trying to get comfortable. He'd convince Italy in the morning. Now, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

* * *

"No," Italy said.

"What do you mean, no?" Ludwig questioned, annoyance thrumming through him. Italy shook his head, laughing. Ludwig clenched his fists. How could the other man be so dismissive?

"I mean, Lud, that I can't go off to the other side, that's just silly," Italy explained, standing up and stretching. "I have to stay here, and protect you! I'm happy that you have so much faith in me, though!" he said, smiling wide. The smile faltered. "Most people don't," he tacked on, a little quieter.

"You'll protect-" Ludwig said incredulously, cutting himself off and rubbing his temples. "Italy, you're going. That is an order." Seeing the other man's face begin to fall, he held his hands up, gesturing for him to hold on. "Listen, Italy," he started, deciding to try to appeal to his emotional side. The Italian put his heart over his mind in any given situation, after all. "We have to utilize your skill set if we want to make progress, and this is the most effective way to do so. If you can extract the right information from our enemies, you could win us the war." He stopped, gauging Italy's reaction. The brunette seemed unimpressed. Bored, even. "This is the best way to… protect me. Plus," he added, almost desperately, "You don't have to kill anyone." Italy perked up at that.

"So… I don't have to fight on the front lines?" he said. Ludwig shook his head. The Italian appeared to process that new bit of information for a few seconds, before sitting back down. "Fine," he finally said, propping an elbow up on crossed legs and setting his chin in his palm. "What do I have to do?"

Ludwig let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "You will-" he cleared his throat, and let his gaze wander up to meet Italy's calm, almost serious one. "You will be provided with fake paperwork that will automatically place you as an officer in the United States' Military. Your name is William Bates. You're a twenty-three-year-old native of New York. Your mother, an Italian immigrant who moved during the early years of the twentieth century, married an American soldier and had you in 1921. You'll get the rest later." Italy nodded. "In order to pull this job off, you're going to have to train very hard for the next two weeks under my private instruction," Ludwig warned.

"I understand, sir," Italy said. "I'll do my best."

Ludwig shook his head and cleared his throat again. It was unnerving to see the other man this determined. "Uh… You'll be flown to a classified British base on March twenty-third. I… You… you can take the rest of the day off." A wide, infectious smile broke out on Italy's face. Ludwig breathed a sigh of relief. That was better.

"Thank you, Captain!" the other man exclaimed, rushing forward and enveloping Ludwig in a tight hug, dancing out of arms' reach before Ludwig could shove him away himself. "See you at dinner!" With one last cheeky salute and a flash of white teeth, Italy ducked out of the tent and was gone.

The sudden quiet stillness made Ludwig wonder if he was ever there in the first place.

* * *

The next two weeks passed by far too quickly. They were dreamlike, almost. When Ludwig looked back on them, trying to grasp some sort of solid memory, the memory slipped away spitefully, leaving behind it a trail of vague images and muddled emotions.

Italy had worked harder than Ludwig ever knew him to. He did everything Ludwig asked without question, not complaining of sore muscles when he stretched in the morning, running without stopping for longer than ever before - despite all odds, training had been a complete success. Ludwig even commented on it. (He suppressed the strange feeling of pride that flared up when the simple "You've been working hard, good job" caused a dazzling smile to spread across the other man's face. It was unprofessional.)

Now, it was night again. Ludwig lay on his back again, as he always did, hands resting atop his thin blanket and stomach, staring into the canvas ceiling of his tent.

It was too quiet. Usually, he could fall asleep to the distant sound of his soldiers drinking and laughing, but he had told them to move forward without him and his Italian ally a week ago (though not before putting a trusted man in charge of the lot- Ludwig wasn't by any means _irresponsible_ ), in order to train the other man without distractions.

The wind picked up, rustling the thick, rough fabric of the tent, squeezing through the cracks and chilling Ludwig to the bone. He shuddered, pulling the blanket tighter around him and turning away from the opening of the tent. He'd rather his back be cold than his front, though both options were unpleasant.

"Hey."

Ludwig reacted immediately, instinctively, cold all but forgotten, a pistol cocked and aimed at the source of the voice in less than two seconds. Then, he looked.

He shouldn't have been surprised to see Italy kneeling by his bed pallet, the minimal light seemingly drawn to his wide, shocked eyes. His hands were frozen in the air, a universal gesture of surrender. Ludwig exhaled, letting the gun fall to the ground with a quiet _thunk._

"What are you doing here?" he half-whispered, half-apologized, leaning back down on his bed and putting an exasperated hand on his face. Gently, wordlessly, the smooth metal grip of his pistol was pressed to his calloused palm, and hands that weren't his curled his fingers around it.

"I had a nightmare," Italy quietly admitted, eyes flickering back and forth as Ludwig sighed, sat up, and placed the gun back under his pillow. Then, Italy's face turned cheerful. "And, it was chilly in my tent! You're so warm, so I thought I'd come visit! And, you know, there's the fact that I have to go tomorrow, so I wanted to spend as much time with you as possible. Cause we're friends, right?"

Nightmares, then. Well, Ludwig had to admit that company made one feel safer, and it wasn't like Italy hadn't done this before.

"Yes," Ludwig finally said, scooting over a few inches. "Friends." The grin he was rewarded with was stunning, as usual, but it was also endlessly thankful.

Ludwig opened the blanket, and Italy immediately crawled in beside him, snuggling close to his chest without shame.

 _It_ is _cold,_ Ludwig thought, wrapping an arm around the smaller man and ignoring the nagging fact that after tonight, he likely wouldn't see him again for months. He entirely ignored the high likelihood of Italy being somehow injured, or worse.

If asked, Ludwig would attribute the sudden tightening of his grip around the lean brunette to a sudden gust of cold wind. But he knew, deep inside, that he was worried. And maybe, just _maybe,_ a little terrified.

The next day, when Italy tackled him in a goodbye hug, Ludwig had been too shocked to react, apart from a sharp inhale. When the man gave his signature cheeky-grin-and- _far_ -too-sloppy-salute farewell, Ludwig couldn't help but snap to attention and salute him back. Then, Italy turned, and within the next five minutes, he was gone. For the first time, he himself questioned his plan.

He couldn't ignore the pang of loneliness that struck him when he found the worn iron cross under his pillow that evening.

* * *

Hallo, Ludwig!

It's been… what, three months, since I saw you last? And… well…

I've decided to send you a monthly letter along with my report for that week. Being an American is fun, sometimes, they're a crazy bunch! But, well, it's hard, other times. Not keeping up the façade, that's easy! But knowing that I'm the enemy here… and that these new friends people I know now only like 'Billy', the Italian-American soldier from New York… it hurts a little bit.

I know this is dumb, and I'm sorry. You can't reply back, so what's the point? I just want to imagine I have a real friend out here. And, well, being undercover means I can't ever say what I want to. So I'll probably just ramble a bit in these letters, so I feel like I'm being heard.

I'm lonely, Lud. I'm alone, here. I'm surrounded by people who think I'm their friend, and sometimes I can trick myself into thinking that I'm theirs, too, but… then I climb into my bunk and say good night to Marcus and Tony and Jack, and I just bury my face in my pillow because I feel so guilty.

You were wrong, you know. You told me I wouldn't have to hurt anyone. Well, two weeks ago, I had to tell somebody something- I couldn't lie to _everyone_ anymore, it made me feel too bad, and people were starting to notice. So one of my… companions… pulled me aside one day after dinner, and demanded I tell him what was wrong, and I just… I broke down, and I let something slip about, well, you. Immediately, everything felt cold and wrong, and when I looked up at my fellow soldier, he was just glaring at me. And very, very slowly, he asked where I was _really_ born, and I knew I had been discovered. I was so scared, Ludwig. My accent even slipped through when I explained a little more. He attacked me. He said he was going to kill me, and throw my body into the river.

And, well… you know that we're a little stronger than humans. I- I choked him- I saw him die- _I_ threw his body into the river-

I've been around for a very long time, and I'm no stranger to death, to… killing. Now, it's easy. Bullet to the chest, to the head, and you're gone. But hundreds of years ago- that was a very, very different time, and I thought the world had progressed past that, all that senseless, prolonged suffering. It seems I was wrong.

The investigation is ongoing, so I'm laying low right now, trying to blend in. I almost thought I was discovered again when I started crying in the middle of questioning- I felt so guilty- but I was able to pass it off as being sad because my friend was dead.

I'm not making any sense anymore, I'm sorry. I'll hopefully have a happier story to tell you next month.

Tchüss!

Feliciano Vargas

Hallo, Ludwig!

It's been another month since my last letter- did you appreciate the information I was able to get to you these past few weeks? It's not much, but should help you, at least a little bit.

But enough of that. I have to tell you what's been happening with me! Luckily, the investigation of Johnny's death was dropped… well, weeks ago. It was still terrifying, at the time. I was so scared that I'd be discovered, that I would slip up again, but… everyone trusts me. I guess that hurts a little bit, but talking to you helped put me in a much better mood. You may notice that I seem a lot happier today, even though I… well, Johnny's death happened, and…

I still feel very guilty. But I'm not crying myself to sleep anymore, so that's good! I just imagine that you're here with me, sometimes. I'll just tap my chin and think, "What would Ludwig want me to do?" I'm following your orders, after all, Captain! Well, I came to the conclusion that you would tell me to get over it. Because in war, death happens, and killing happens, and if I can't get over that then I'm a useless soldier, and who wants a useless soldier? So, I'm trying to push it all to the back of my mind, and… well, I feel a lot better.

Oh! Also, I've been told that I'm apparently a fantastic sharpshooter. Personally, I'm not too surprised, I was an excellent shot with my bow, when I still had it. But I've been told that instead of being moved to the front lines like they originally planned for me, I may be able to just be a sniper instead! I won't have to hurt as many people- I can aim to injure instead of kill, and I can get away with it!

I miss you, though. Kiku, too, and my brother, but… I don't know. I hope the war ends soon, so we can see each other again.

I'll update you again next time!

Feliciano Vargas

Hallo, Ludwig,

I can't believe it's been five months already, can you? I've been fighting and fighting and training and… it's just been endless.

Why did you tell me that I wouldn't have to fight on the front lines? No, forget that. I know why. It's been tearing me up inside for the past week, Ludwig. You see me as a tool, right? You thought you could… manipulate me into doing this work for you. And you did. You did, and I knew it, and I didn't care, and that's the worst part, isn't it? I care too much. Have I just… tricked myself into thinking that I've finally found someone who cares about me, too?

All you do is put up with me, and that's only because you're young and inexperienced, you're not annoyed by me yet. I forgot about that, your age, and I overstepped my boundaries. See, now I'm just looking back on it all, and

No. You do care, right? I can't tell, anymore. I think you do, at least a little bit. You wouldn't let me sleep with you if you didn't, you wouldn't let me… hug you so much, you wouldn't… but… you sigh so much, you always look so mad whenever I do something wrong… and I used to ignore it because I thought you were playing around because… I don't know…

I'm sorry, Ludwig. I think I messed up. Please forgive me.

Your Friend,

Feliciano Vargas

Hallo, Ludwig!

I'm so sorry about not sending a letter last month. That was rude and inconsiderate of me- I just… started overthinking everything a little too much. I should have never doubted your friendship. I'll be honest… I'm scared of losing you. I'm scared of losing people. I've lost people before, and… well, it's not fun. And the last thing I want to do is be the reason they leave again.

It's kind of funny, really. I'd never say this out loud. I guess I sometimes forget that this isn't a diary, so I just write everything down. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I'm making you uncomfortable… but… it feels good, to imagine that someone is actually listening to what I have to say.

But enough of that! I have two months to catch you up on, Lud! We've been fighting our way to Belgium, but you already know that. The Normandy landings were so scary, I don't think I ever told you. People were dropping like flies, it was horrible. Blood everywhere. I tried not to look. I think I did get shot once or twice, or maybe I got shot four or five times and died once or twice? I don't really remember, but I'm glad it's over. I had nightmares about it for months. But, luckily, we've been working our way through France- it's a miracle I haven't bumped into him- and we're making our way to Belgium now. I don't even have to fight that much, my job is to pick off people from afar.

It makes me feel like a coward, like everyone always says. And maybe it's true. I can stomach- if only barely- the thought of shooting a man from afar. I don't have to see his face, I don't have to see the last look of hate, I don't have to calm myself down and convince myself that what I'm doing is right, it's okay because I'm undercover. All I have to do is watch them fall, and sometimes I don't even have to do that. Most of the time, I choose not to.

The eyes of a dying man are some of the worst things a person can behold. You know that. I had forgotten. I wish I'd never been reminded.

The snow is pretty, though. The Americans' alcohol is awful, but I pretend to like it anyway. And it's even fun, sometimes, sitting around the campfire and joking about everything from the second tree on the left to the life awaiting us back home.

I'm not making any sense at all, am I? Well… again, I'm sorry for worrying you, if I did. I won't let you down again.

Hope to see you soon!

Feliciano Vargas

Hallo, Ludwig,

I don't have much time, and I'm so sorry I couldn't get a report out to you for the past two weeks. I would have been caught, it's complicated. All you need to know is in this report that I'm sending you right now.

Today is December 9th, 1944. I was told by a contact that the Germans are going to be invading us in one week. I'm going to assume you will be leading the invasion, and if you aren't, you'll still be there, somewhere.

And you know how it is. Nations always find each other on the battlefield. But… as much as I want to see you again, I hope for both of our sakes that our paths don't cross. And… I'm… I'm sorry for whatever may come to pass if they do.

Ludwig, I'm scared.

Your friend,

Feliciano Vargas

* * *

The first thing Ludwig did after reading Feliciano's final letter was very gently place it on his bed. The second thing he did was stand, and in a rare display of emotion, violently sweep everything on his desk to the floor with a hoarse yell.

And then he walked back to his bed, picked the letter up once again, and sat down with a shuddery exhale.

 _What have I done?_ he thought, not for the first time, skimming through Feliciano's short letter again. He sent his only friend hundreds of miles away to fight against him. Why? Was it really just because Feliciano had a useful skill set? Was it something else?

No. No, that hurt to think about- not in his head, but somewhere deep in his heart, leaving a pulsating ache behind to spread through his already heavy limbs and clump together in dense, sticky black chunks that clung to the walls of his stomach, lungs, just behind his collarbone-

All of a sudden, Ludwig felt drained. Emotionally, physically, mentally- he barely had the energy to take a small wooden letter-box out from underneath his bed and place it, with shaking fingers, in his lap. Very carefully, he slid off the lid and set Feliciano's other four letters atop the sheets in chronological order.

He knew them by heart, almost, now. As it turned out, he n… found Feliciano's presence as useful as Feliciano apparently found his. Ever since the other man was flown to the other side of the continent, Ludwig found his nightmares worsening, and more often than not featuring a bloodied once-white flag, or a torn strip of blue fabric, a dented Iron Cross- sometimes even Feliciano himself, a gaping hole in his chest or head, splinters of red-washed bone scattered between and among dead, faceless soldiers…

Ludwig shook his head and folded the letters back into their box, before locking it and shoving it back under the bed, refusing to think about them- about the crushing future ahead- about the cold dread in his heart-

That night, Ludwig dreamed of a bomb-scarred battlefield overshadowed by crackling thunderclouds, the air so thick with dust he couldn't see the horizon in the distance, or even the ruined town not two miles away.

In the center sat a solitary soldier, his legs curled underneath him, shoulders hunched. One hand clutched his uniformed heart, and a glint of metal shone from the loosely clasped other, which lay unmoving in the dirt. Ludwig stepped forward, trying to get a closer look. A violent clap of thunder not unlike a gunshot shook the ground.

For a moment, all was still. The man's gaze seemed fixated on his hand and the small metal object it held. Ludwig took another two steps forward. The soldier's hand tightened around the medal and brought it close to his chest. A single, staccato sob shook his shoulders. Ludwig took a step, and another, and another, until he found himself kneeling beside the man, lips parted to ask if he was okay, not entirely sure how he ended up there, but not really caring.

"You're here," the soldier breathed, acknowledging Ludwig's existence for the first time since he arrived. He looked up, meeting Ludwig's shocked sky-blue eyes with his own wet, honey-brown ones, lips curving into a sad smile.

After a moment of tense stillness, Feliciano reached out, offering the medal- the cross, the iron cross Ludwig gave him years ago, with shaky, red-stained fingers.

And so, Ludwig leaned forward- not to take the medal, but to pull the other man to his feet and hold him close because he'd been a _fool_ \- to bring him back home. It had been such a long time since either of them had seen home, hadn't it?

But Feliciano was no longer holding the cross. No, he was holding a live grenade, and it was about to blow, it would kill them both, why didn't you ever listen to me when it was _you_ in harm's way, dammit, _why are you so ready to sacrifice yourself for m-_

The last thing Ludwig saw before the world around him went up in red and billowing black and orange and white was Feliciano's lips- cracked, bleeding- still set in that regretful, sad smile.

* * *

It was _cold._ Not that winters in the northern half of Europe had ever been warm, but the only things keeping Ludwig and his army warm at the moment were paralyzing fear, adrenaline, the heat radiating off the cannons and tanks-

It was December 16th, 1944. They had been fighting for almost eight hours, now. Judging by the sun's position in the sky, it was almost three in the afternoon- still, there was no sign of Fe-

Ludwig shuddered, and yelled at a passing officer to take command. He had to go back to his command tent and plan, and he _couldn't_ afford to be distracted by absent allies. He had to beat the Americans, he had to crush the Allies, for the good of his country, like the Fuhrer told him. This was the only way he could save them all.

He sat behind his makeshift desk with a heavy sigh, lacing his fingers together under his chin and closing his eyes. A piercing gunshot rang out in the distance, followed by the sound of heavy, rapid fire, and an ominous _boom_ even farther out.

"General!" an urgent voice shouted from the tent entrance. Ludwig looked up sharply, posture immediately snapping into that of a perfect soldier, he was a perfect soldier, he had to be a perfect soldier for his people for his land for his boss for F-

"What is it, Officer?" Ludwig said, harsh, because there was no beauty or love or ease in war, and that was something everyone needed to know, peace and happiness only comes after you work for it, fight for it, die for it.

"The men are panicking, sir," the officer reported. "A sniper suspected to be hiding in the nearby village has been taking out soldiers left and right- anyone who dares approach is shot."

Of its own will, it seemed, Ludwig's breath caught in his throat. "A… sniper, you say?" he repeated, voice almost hoarse. He cleared his throat.

"That's right, sir-"

"I'll take care of it," Ludwig said, pushing down the hope that flared up in his chest and made his heart burn.

"But, sir, you're an important figure-" the officer protested weakly.

"I said," Ludwig gritted out, meeting the officer's meek gaze with an intense, stern one of his own, "I will take care of it. You, officer, are in no position to question me. Are we clear?"

The man offered no response.

"Are we _clear_?" Ludwig barked, abruptly rising from his seat, sending the chair skidding across the frozen ground below. The man nodded and scurried off.

For a few minutes, Ludwig paced back and forth across the tent, pinching the bridge of his nose, ignoring the fact that the longer he waited, the more German soldiers died. What if it wasn't him? What if-

No. He had to- he had to hope for the best. Nations always meet on the battlefield, right?

Ludwig stopped, steeled himself, and walked out, making sure to tuck a gun in his jacket just in case.

The suspected two-story house was nondescript and entirely unremarkable- the only mildly intriguing thing about it at all was the extreme state of disrepair it seemed to be in, what with half of the wooden planks hanging onto the outer wall by a single bent nail, how the roof creaked under the weight of the snow, how the house itself shook in the wind.

Ludwig shivered, staring at the blank, unlocked door, and then glancing at the open window above, noting with apprehension the muted reflection of the sun on the thin, almost-hidden barrel of a rifle.

When approaching, he'd been as cautious as his training allowed, staying out of visible range when he could, every step slow and measured and light. But the moment he passed the threshold of the house, everything fell away- the deep-set fear of doing something wrong, the fear of being rejected- and his boots crashed against the stairs, the door to the second-floor bedroom splintered against the wall after being flung carelessly, harshly open-

In war, you have to be cautious, and you have to be even more so if in a position of command. Every step you take, every choice you make- every single thing you do risks someone's life, could increase casualties, or could give you a fighting chance. In war, you can't afford to live in the moment, because wars are fought to secure the future, not the present.

At least, that's what Ludwig used to think. It was precisely why Feliciano's impulsiveness and blatant affection frustrated him so much, in the past. But now, well. Now, he understood, and realized again that the Italian was old, and though he never seemed to show it, wise.

You can't afford to live in the moment? No, you can't afford to _not_ live in the moment. In war, you never know what's coming next, because war is an unpredictable, greedy beast that snatches up millions and affects millions more. In order to stay sane, you have to follow through on your impulses, and refuse hold back. You have to love without inhibitions, and live like there's no tomorrow, because what if there isn't?

No- no, no, no-

The room was empty. A desolate breeze caressed the tattered blue curtains of the window. Leaning against its frame was a lovingly polished sniper rifle, and next to that, an unoccupied stool.

Ludwig stepped further into the room. No, he couldn't have had his hopes brought up so far only to see them fall back to the earth, broken before they hit the ground. An unwanted sob built up in his throat, and he had to tighten his jaw and swallow in order to keep it from breaking free. Hot tears stung his eyes, but Ludwig blinked them away before they could spill over.

 _Clack._ And immediately, Ludwig's rifle was out, pointed unforgivingly at the… attacker… Then, it joined the other on the floor.

He and Feliciano stared at each other for a few seconds, taking in the image of the other, both shaking a little, partially due to the cold but mostly the fact that they were _there_ , both of them were there, neither of them were just another hopeful dream, after all.

Then, Feliciano's beautiful, sad amber eyes crinkled, twin tears carving their way down his cold-pinked cheeks, and he ran, catapulting himself at Ludwig, arms outstretched, and tackling him to the floor. Ludwig didn't think he'd ever been embraced so hard, or long-

Whenever Feliciano had hugged him in the past, Ludwig had just sighed or remained unresponsive. Maybe, once in a blue moon, he patted the other man's back awkwardly in return. Now, however, he surprised even himself by squeezing back just as intensely. Feliciano's face was buried somewhere in his neck, and his desperate sobs shook both his own frame and Ludwig's.

Wait. No. That was wrong. Ludwig was crying too, he felt the tears on his cheeks, and he didn't know when, exactly, they started. But now, he didn't care. He didn't have the time or energy to worry about being a strong leader, all he wanted was someone to drop that wall around, something he didn't know he was missing until it was gone.

A friend. More?

A friend.

"I'm sorry," Feliciano mumbled into his tear-stained uniform, sounding unmistakably American. Ludwig flinched. "I'm so sorry, Ludwig. I- I probably worried you, I keep worrying you, I just…" He trailed off, however, when Ludwig wordlessly shook his head and held him tighter.

They remained like that- locked together in a desperate, uncharacteristically emotional embrace, seeking out companionship and comfort in each other after a long stretch of crowded solitude- for a long while, what seemed like an eternity and a single second at the same time. Then, Feliciano lifted his head, and Ludwig did too, and both just stared at each other.

"So, you're not a dream," Feliciano said, and against all odds, giggled. His nose scrunched up, eyes squeezing shut and letting another pair of tears slip free. He wiped them away hurriedly before they could reach his chin and sniffled. "Ludwig," he said, reaching up to Ludwig's face and rubbing away the tears there. Ludwig leaned into his hand, letting his eyes shut just briefly in an odd sort of wartime contentment, before opening them again and staring into Feliciano's sad, smiling eyes. "I think I'm happy."

"I think I am, too," Ludwig whispered, the first words he'd managed since creeping into the sad, desolate room.

"And I think I want to come home," Feliciano said. He wasn't staring at Ludwig any longer, his eyes instead having found some faraway spot in the distance, beyond the walls of the shaking house, beyond the crackling, booming battlefield. Ludwig was ready to wholeheartedly agree, too. He was lonely. He could admit that. But he was more concerned about Feliciano, who appeared to be on the verge of breaking, even now. "I know, I have a mission. And… I intend to follow through. I will help you win this war, Ludwig. I have to protect you… I couldn't do it last time, I won't make the same mistake-" there, he cut himself off, shaking his head.

No. No, no, this was all wrong. Ludwig couldn't even find the words to describe how wrong it was. _He_ was the one that made the mistake- he sent an ally ill-fitted for war directly behind enemy lines, expecting the man to come out of it unharmed- he sent his closest friend away selfishly, believing he was a distraction and a nuisance, not even thinking about how the sweet, caring man he'd grown unbelievably close to would feel-

"Feliciano-" he began, intending to _try,_ at least, to explain everything. However, at that exact moment, the other man's face went slack, pure terror alighting in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," Feliciano whispered, and punched him square in the jaw. Ludwig went sprawling, head hitting the floor with a painful _clunk._ Feliciano reached down, plucking Ludwig's hand-pistol from the inside of his coat, and pointing it straight at his forehead.

"Feliciano, what the _hell_ -"

"Shut up, Nazi scum!" Feliciano shouted. "Someone's here," he said, quieter, lip trembling. "Hurry, put your hands up, surrender!" he hissed, eyes wild and scared. Ludwig couldn't help but follow the other man's orders. _What's happening, what the fuck is happening-_

"Billy!" the unmistakably American voice called, echoing eerily throughout the house. "Billy, where the hell are you? Come on, don't tell me you got shot!" No- no, no no no- they'd been too long without each other- Ludwig couldn't be alone again, not after this long, not after the first truly _happy_ moment he'd experienced in months- _stand by my side again, I beg you-_

Fresh tears shivered in Feliciano's eyes before rolling down, down, down, dripping off his chin and splashing against his chest.

" _Bill!"_ the voice now seemed panicked, but it was nowhere near the level pure fear Ludwig could see in Feliciano's shaking hands, nowhere near the level of anticipation and dread Ludwig felt in his own hands and chest- _please, just leave him, come back home, I don't care about the mission, I don't care about them, I don't care about the humans, I don't care I don't care Idon'tcare-_

Ludwig heard the other soldier before he saw him, the crash of his heavy boots against the stairs, the hollow clang of a newly-polished rifle against the wall. Then, the man's boots appeared, his uniform, his clean-shaven face, the curly locks of dark hair peeking out from underneath his helmet. _Goddammit, Feliciano, I swear on your God- I will never forgive you if you follow through with this-_

Something in Feliciano appeared to wilt, his head drooping, shoulders falling from tense and shaky to hopeless, forlorn. "I'm here," he said, half-heartedly attempting to sound anything but broken and empty. _I will run you into the ground, you won't be able to feel your muscles for a week, minimum-_

"Oh, thank _god,_ " the other soldier breathed. "Dammit, Billy, I thought you were dead! Instead, you've cornered yourself a Nazi. Nice job, I always knew you had it in you. What'd he do, try to getcha from behind?" No, _never,_ he'd never do that.

"What else?" Feliciano asked, his smooth voice almost… bored. The even tone was almost shocking, in comparison to his face- his face, with eyes rimmed in red, his eyebrows knotted in a pained, frustrated, confused scowl.

"What are you waiting for, then?" the soldier demanded. "We need you out there, _now._ Take care of the damn kraut, or I'll do it for you." _No. I'm sorry. I forgive you, Feliciano, for whatever you feel like you have to do here and now, and I'm sorry I wasn't able to explain that- that I'm tired of all this loneliness- it's my fault, all of this is my fault, I sent you here, my selfish choice is what put you in this position. I forgive you. I forgive you._

"I-" and suddenly, Feliciano's lips trembled again, and the tears started pouring down in earnest again, silent, still, somehow graceful- "You told me I didn't have to kill anyone," he whispered, his eyes sharp, accusing, acutely painful in some otherworldly way. "You told me I'd be protecting you." The American in the doorway tapped his foot impatiently.

 _I just hope you can forgive yourself. Please, forgive yourself._

Feliciano's hands shook. His eyes slid shut. Finally, his finger tightened around the trigger.

 _Bang._ Red.

 _I love-_

Black.

* * *

He woke up in a soft bed, a bandage tightly looped around his head, two weeks later.

It was quiet. Much, _much_ too quiet.

Ludwig peeled the bandage off- he didn't need it, his head wound was fully healed- and sat up. Where was he? He shook his head. He couldn't worry about that right now, he had to get back, he had to assist his men.

With a pained groan, he flung the inviting sheets back, swung his legs out of the bed, and stood. He hobbled over to the window, bracing himself on the sill, and threw open the curtains, unveiling the setting sun, and closer, the cold metal figure of the Eiffel tower. .

 _No. No, no, no-_

"Beautiful view, yes?"

Ludwig whirled around, meeting France's hateful gaze with one of his own.

The other man looked haggard and angry, his uniform dirty, ripped- a fresh, shiny scar peeked out from underneath his collar. A wooden crutch was tucked under one arm.

"No? Oh, my mistake. It would have been much nicer if we hadn't been occupied."

"You would never have been occupied if you didn't force the entire war debt onto my people," Ludwig snarled. France narrowed his eyes and hopped forward, leaning heavily on his crutch.

"Watch your tongue, _boy,_ " he spat, jabbing his finger in Ludwig's direction. "You're losing this war, and you know it. Now, listen here," he said, taking another few shaky steps forward, "The only reason you're not rotting in a basement somewhere is your little coward- he brought your bloody body here personally, begging for my help and warning me against making the same mistake twice."

Coward… wait, no, that wasn't right. Feli- _Italy_ couldn't have-

"I agreed, on one condition," France continued. "You, Germany, are staying in my house for a very long time. Until the war is won, at least. Maybe longer, until your country is stable again."

Suddenly, Ludwig was hit with a wave of exhaustion. He broke eye contact and stumbled back to his bed, where he collapsed, head in his hands. No more war… hopeless… but… peace?

"Italy isn't a coward," he eventually mumbled. At that, France's entire being seemed to soften, angry, sharp edges smoothing away- all of a sudden, he seemed like _he_ was the captive here, instead of Ludwig. He sighed heavily, running his free hand through his hair.

"No, I suppose he is not," he said after a long moment. He looked away. "A word of advice, Germany. It probably isn't deserved, but… I'm paying back old debts." France cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably. "Never trust your boss. Obey, but _never_ trust."

Ludwig simply nodded.

"I… I ask that you remain civil while in my home. Do not forget that until the war stops, you are a prisoner, if a prisoner of high status. I or a servant will bring you three meals daily."

Ludwig nodded again.

France cleared his throat again, looking torn. "Expect your first meal within ten minutes." And with that awkward not-farewell, he hobbled out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Not three seconds later, the click of a lock echoed in Ludwig's ears.

* * *

"Come on, you have to be excited."

"No."

"Not even a little bit?" France grinned like a cat, resting his head in his hand. "Come on, you're not excited to see _anyone?_ "

" _No,_ " Ludwig said, glaring pointedly out the window. "I don't know if you recall, but the last time I saw most of these nations, we were at war. Against each other. And I lost." France frowned, twirling a golden lock of hair around one long, elegant finger. "I'm sure you know better than anyone that they tend to… gloat," he tacked on.

"Germany, Germany, you are so _dense_! No wonder I don't know of any famous German poets, none of you blockheads know how to read between the lines!" Ludwig glanced over just in time to see France lean back in his heated leather seat and roll his eyes. "I knew Saxony should have raised you instead, she was always so much more level-headed than… well, never mind."

Ludwig cringed and looked away again. He hadn't seen his older brother in at least three years. Last he heard, Gilbert had been taken captive by Russia, for some unexplained reason. Prussia had been officially dissolved one or two years ago, but he was holding out hope that Gilbert, at least, was still alive somewhere. France coughed.

"Anyway, let me get to the point, as you Germans like to do," France drawled, crossing his legs and putting his arms behind his head. "Both Italies will be there, but I have a feeling you're more interested in one over the other. This will be your first time at a meeting, ever! You must be concerned about making a good impression."

Ludwig's jaw tightened. "France, it's been two years," he said flatly. "Every single time I've attempted to contact Italy- _you know which one-_ I've been redirected, or told, flat-out by Romano that he doesn't want to ever speak with me again."

"Romano…" France pursed his lips, thinking. "has... dramatic flair, and a penchant for… exaggeration."

The limousine hit a bump, making France's hair bounce. Ludwig resisted the urge to run his hand through his own, make sure not a single strand was out of place- oh, he should check all of his notes again, make sure they were all in order-

"Why hasn't he visited?" Ludwig said, abrupt and sharp. France laughed.

"Finally, a question. Alas, even with all of this wisdom, I cannot answer it. You've refused to give me any information about the circumstances that brought you to my doorstep, Germany. Which, I suppose, was understandable at first. But I'd like to think we're friends now, no?"

"I-"

"Details or not," France cut in, fingering his silver watch and fidgeting with his suit, "all I could ever give you is speculation. If you want an answer, you, my emotionally constipated friend, must consult the source of your issues." France shot him a stern, serious look. "I understand that Veneziano is close to you, correct? And whether our European companions realize it or not, he is a powerful ally."

Ludwig remained silent this time, resting his chin in his palm and staring out the window. His suit was itchy, with loose threads tickling his skin, nothing like the hand-sewn masterpiece Italy had gifted him with one year for his birthday.

"Believe me, Germany," France said, much softer, "I know you're listening, so please hear this. You will regret every single minute you don't act."

And with that final piece of solemn advice, the limousine rolled to a halt outside of a magnificent, stately, regal-looking building built with what appeared to be polished white marble. Ludwig climbed out, not taking the gloved hand offered to him, and simply stood in front of the building, admiring the architecture. A long, heavy sigh sounded from several feet behind him.

"Room 229-F," France said. "If you want to go ahead. Which I assume you do. Early is on time, on time is late, is that not what you say? Personally, I believe in being fashionably late, but that is… not appropriate for a first impression, I believe."

"Thank you," Ludwig said sincerely, turning around and meeting the other man's sly stare. A smile spread across his face, slow and mischievous.

"Anytime, my dense friend!" France said as Ludwig began to make his way inside the building. "And follow my advice!" he tacked on a few seconds later.

He found the room easily enough. As France predicted, he was… ten minutes early? Various other nations were gathered already, mingling and chatting amiably with each other around a decently-sized circular wooden table.

All of a sudden, he wished he had waited to come in with France. This was the first time he'd seen… anyone, really, since the war ended, and though no one acted outright _hostile_ , he felt their angry stares on his back as he searched for his name tag and took a seat, avoiding any form of eye contact.

"Oh, come _on,_ " a loud, English voice complained. "Who arranged the seating charts this time?"

Of course. Of course he'd be seated next to England. Finally, he looked up, meeting the indignant gentleman's glare with a tired one of his own.

"I'm… sorry. I had no control over this," he ground out.

"Shouldn't have had control over anything, I say," England said, crossing his arms and sniffing haughtily. "I'll have you know, I was in the hospital for months. Months! Give a madman a bomb, what's gonna happen?"

"I apologize," Ludwig said, and this time, it was sincere. "For the bombings. I'd rather not start things, however, I'm sure you understand."

"Hmph," England said. "That's a first, now isn't it?"

Ludwig let a long breath out of his nose, and decided to instead stare fixedly ahead of him. France had repeatedly warned him against inciting any form of conflict, especially with former enemies. England snorted.

"Fine, be a coward, then," he said, resting his chin in his hand and looking away pointedly. Ludwig's fist tightened under the table, briefly.

The meeting itself started without much fanfare. Once the clock struck midday, all the nations who were still standing and mingling quietly filed away to their assigned seats.

Five minutes into the meeting, Italy burst through the huge set of double doors, apologizing profusely in rapid Italian. He looked as flagrantly stylish as ever, dressed in a cream-white suit and shiny black dress shoes that could easily be worth the average worker's monthly pay. His hair was windblown and messy, almost as if he had been stuck in a wind tunnel for the past half-hour. And when his wide eyes met Ludwig's, all of the blood drained from his lightly tanned face, regret morphing into pure fear. Immediately, he looked away and took his seat, dutifully avoiding Ludwig's intense stare.

From there, the meeting proceeded smoothly, but as much as Ludwig tried to focus, to re-orient himself and integrate himself back into society, he couldn't keep his mind off Italy- the look of pure fear that came across his face when they locked eyes was burned on the inside of his eyelids, flashing in his mind's eye whenever he blinked. A hard pit of unease sat in his stomach, boiling and bubbling, making him feel sick. What did he do? What _could_ he have done? He hadn't seen the other man in two years, being blocked at every turn, turned away every time he attempted to reach out.

Though Italy avoided his eyes, he saw the man's occasional glances in his direction. He still seemed nervous, jumpy- in fact, he was acting almost exactly like he had back in the Great War, when they met for the first time. Except, it was worse. So much worse. His breath hitched. Were they- were they only strangers to each other, now? One of his greatest allies, the only person he could rely on to remain loyal- not to Germany, not their alliance, but to him, Ludwig, because Kiku was always worlds away, Gilbert was gone for _god_ knew how long, maybe he wouldn't ever return home-

He took a moment to still his shaking hands, ignoring England's smug sneer, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Don't lose composure now, don't show anything, don't… don't… Ludwig took another deep breath.

"Any last statements?"

No one raised their hand. A faint cough could be heard somewhere to the right.

"Alright then, at 3:54 p.m. on November fourth, fourteen-forty-six, this meeting is adjourned."

Italy moved so quickly that Ludwig almost missed it, standing and fleeing the room with speed rivaling that of a startled deer. _No. No, not this time._

"So, Germany, how was your first-"

The screech of the chair against the hardwood floor choked France's next words.

"Later," he said tersely, and tore out of the room after the Italian.

He had never been so glad France allowed him to keep up his workout routine- without it, he was sure he would have lost Italy in the long, majestic, endlessly twisting and winding halls of the meeting building. He rounded richly carpeted corners, dodged gaping men in suits- he didn't care what they thought, he had to- he had to fix this, he had to get answers, he had to fill the gaping hole Italy used to occupy in his heart- did he still occupy it? Was that why it hurt so much?

Finally, _finally,_ he cornered Italy in a break room carpeted with thick, soft red, decorated with wilting orchids and worn armchairs.

The smaller man faced the blank wall, shoulders tense, fingers curled into tight fists. A dozen questions rose to Ludwig's lips- _Why didn't you visit? Why didn't you let me visit? When did you decide to not care? Why are you so scared? What did I do wrong? Why did you abandon me?_

The moment Italy turned around, however, every single one of those questions died. Panicked tears welled up in the other man's eyes. When Ludwig took a step forward, to try to comfort him, he stumbled to the floor, sobbing, screaming things like "Please don't hurt me," or "I didn't want to," but mostly just "I'm sorry," over and over and over again.

And then he understood. It all hit him in a rush of thoughts and emotions- that night, December 16, 1944- Italy never forgave himself.

When he realized Italy thought _he_ hadn't either, he almost felt his heart snap in two.

He didn't hesitate to kneel beside Feliciano and pull him gently into his arms. To counter his apologies, Ludwig whispered, "It's not your fault." To "I didn't want to," he hugged him tighter and said "I know." To a much quieter "I know you hate me-" Ludwig surprised even himself by choking the sentence off with "How could I hate you when I love you?"

For a long moment, all was silent, save for the occasional hiccupping sob or sniffle. Then, Feliciano hugged back desperately, burying his head into Ludwig's shoulder, and the tears began anew. But this time, they weren't hopeless, instinctive, entirely involuntary - they were shock, relief, and happiness- overwhelming happiness. And suddenly, Ludwig was crying too- the mask had finally fallen, and though he would have been mortified around anyone else, with Feliciano he felt strangely at peace. Redeemed. Whole.

"Listen," he finally said, softly, shifting so his chin was resting comfortably on Feliciano's head. "I should be the one apologizing to you. I was… reckless and selfish… I…" His throat was too dry. He swallowed. "I forced you to go through so much, alone, because- I- I don't know why, maybe I thought going through the war without… distractions… would be easier." He slumped a little, but the way Feliciano squeezed a little tighter, just for a second, encouraged him to keep going. "It wasn't," he said, voice hoarse. "I think we both know that, now."

Feliciano didn't speak for a long while. When he finally did, his voice was thick with regret. "I'm sorry," he mumbled against his chest. When Ludwig inhaled and opened his mouth again to tell him it _wasn't his fault, dammit,_ he pulled away and sighed. "Not for… well… but… for leaving. For hiding. For being a coward."

"No," Ludwig said, shaking his head. "Don't call yourself that."

"What do you mean?" Feliciano said, almost frantic. "I messed up again, I made you feel bad-"

"You are not a _coward,_ " Ludwig insisted. "Everything that happened during those years is my fault. Listen to me. Please, look at me." Hesitantly, Feliciano tore his eyes from the floor and met his. "You are the bravest person I know," he said, and he meant it with all his heart. "You're an artist. You're not a man built for war. You hate conflict, yet you followed me into battle without question. You were constantly scared, terrified, even- but you pushed past it with a smile. You left to join the American army when I told you to, even though my reasons were flimsy, unstable, fake." And again, Feliciano was crying- huge, fat tears that rolled over the curve of his cheekbone and dripped off his jaw. Ludwig glanced away and dug around in his pants' pocket for a few seconds. "That's why I gave you this," he said, holding up Feliciano's gifted iron cross- the one with the nicks and scratches, the one with the tiny heart etched into the bottom corner- "This is the highest possible medal of honor I could give you. You deserve it," he said, and pressed it into Feliciano's hands, curling the other man's fingers around it with his own.

"Thank you," Feliciano whispered, holding the medal close to his heart. He wiped his eyes, and smiled.

It was just as radiant as all the other times he saw it, maybe even more so- here, it shone with truth, rather than shallow cheerfulness. It lit up the other man's whole face, and it suddenly struck him why he felt a jolt of pride. He did that. _He_ made Feliciano happy- he could pull the sun down to the earth and conjure it up in Feliciano's face with just a few words.

When Feliciano wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him, maybe, just _maybe,_ he smiled too.


End file.
